


righteous

by YouAreMyDesign



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Blow Jobs, Death Threats, Episode: s02e07 Yakimono, Extremely Dubious Consent, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Gun Violence, Hair-pulling, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Interrogation, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Revenge Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Threats of Violence, Will Graham Knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 12:25:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18073358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouAreMyDesign/pseuds/YouAreMyDesign
Summary: "Savor this, Hannibal," Will breathes, and despite himself, Hannibal shivers at the sound of Will purring his name. "This is the only part of me you'll get to taste."





	righteous

Hannibal pauses, his hand on the fridge door. Breathes in, deeply.

"The same unfortunate aftershave," he murmurs, turning his head to glimpse the shadow darkening the doorway. "Too long in the bottle." It is sour, now, but does nothing to cover up the scent of Will – Will, alive and whole, mostly healthy. Thinking more clearly than he has for weeks.

He turns, and sees Will, lovely as ever, his hair longer now from his time spent in prison, his eyes shining, that creature Hannibal had so-often glimpsed in him prowling and snarling behind his irises. In his hand is a weapon, a pistol. Will's gun, standard issue, law enforcement. It sits in his hand like an extension of himself, and he lifts it, aiming for Hannibal's chest.

Will steps forward, tilts his head. Snarls, "Our last kitchen conversation was interrupted by Jack Crawford. I'd like to pick up where we left off." His upper lip twitches, and two hands turn to one on his weapon. He angles himself like they are two actors in a play, facing the audience, stance off-kilter, listing left. "If memory serves, you were asking me if it'd feel good to kill you."

Hannibal nods. Doesn't look at the weapon – the real danger is in Will's eyes. "You've given that some thought," he murmurs, a question and not a question.

Will's shoulder lifts. The one Jack shot – his upper lip twitches back to bare the points of his canines, the creature in him howling, clawing at the ground beneath them. Hannibal resists the urge to look down, sure that he would see track marks in the wood, if he did.

"You wanted me to embrace my nature," Will says, a hard whisper; anticipation. He tilts his head, cat-like, watching a bird through a window. "I'm just following the urges I kept down for so long, cultivating them as…" He pauses, eyes raking Hannibal up and down, as though assessing his strength. It feels the way Hannibal does when he eyes his meat. "The inspirations they are."

Hannibal does not smile. "You never answered my question," he replies, and turns to face Will fully, for they are not in a play, and there is no audience. "How would killing me make you feel?"

Will breathes out, grasps his gun tightly. " _Righteous_ ," he hisses, and lifts his gun to aim at Hannibal's head. Despite himself, Hannibal stills, for there is but a single squeeze of Will's pale finger between life and death. Will is the puppeteer, now, Hannibal his unwitting marionette.

He swallows, wetting his lips, and holds out his hands in a gesture of peaceful openness. It does nothing to quell the rage in Will's eyes – ignites it further, perhaps, and his scent thickens with that fever sweetness, but it is not sickness. The wrath of avenging angels burns in Will, and he looks more terrifying and grander than all of the Heavenly host.

"Aren't you curious, Will? Why you?"

"Shut _up_ ," Will hisses, and pulls the hammer back on his gun, lunging forward. Hannibal shies back despite himself, ducking his head, turning his face away. "Don't talk. Don't say another fucking word."

Hannibal gives a single nod, swallowing again as Will breathes out, heavily. Gone are his tremors – his hand is steady as ever, gun aimed at Hannibal's temple. One squeeze, that's all it would take, and Hannibal feels Will's anger as though it's his own, sliding down his spine, squeezing his lungs. A quick release, a hair-trigger.

Will takes another step forward, panting, and fits his gun against Hannibal's temple. The metal is cold and Hannibal shivers, for Will presses no less gently than a kiss, the deadly weapon in his hands trailing softly down Hannibal's cheek like the caress of a lover. It stops, dips in, butts against Hannibal's cheek where it's soft, until he has to part his lips to allow the muzzle to arch, and settle, between his teeth behind flesh.

"I've thought about this more often than you know," Will breathes. The gun warms on Hannibal's skin, and he knows he couldn't move fast enough to knock it away before Will fired. "Thought about how it would feel, how you'd look at me in your final moments."

He angles the gun, tips Hannibal's chin up with it, the sight on the end of the muzzle digging into soft flesh, pressing painfully. He steps closer, closer still, so that when Hannibal opens his eyes, his vision is only Will.

"Show me your wrists."

Hannibal nods, slowly shrugging off his coat. He folds it, and places it on the island beside them, and then his suit jacket, and his scarf. He unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt and pushes them up, until the long, dark lines from Matthew Brown are revealed.

He holds them out in offering, and shivers when Will's eyes drop. The gun doesn't move, but he reaches with his free hand and takes Hannibal's right wrist, turning his arm so that he can see the entire scar. Hannibal had the stitches removed, but the mark is still dark and healing, raised. Hannibal watches him, watches the perverse mix of pleasure dance in his bright eyes – but, beyond that, he sees anger. Wrath, and he doesn't know who it's for.

Then, Will swallows, presses his lips together, and pulls Hannibal's wrist to his mouth. Kisses, so gently, at the edge of the scar where Hannibal's pulse rushes, where the skin is delicate and thin. His lashes flutter, his exhale is soft and shaken, his brow creases.

He opens his eyes, meets Hannibal's, and lets his arm go. Swallows again, and steps back, so that he can extend his arm fully and press the gun against Hannibal's forehead.

"Get on your knees."

Hannibal blinks at him, but obeys, because he has no other choice. "You're not an executioner, Will," he murmurs.

Will snarls at him, jerks his hand and shoves Hannibal's head down, using the gun. "You don't know what I am," he growls, and circles to Hannibal's back. Kicks at his ankles, so he can step between them, and slides his free hand in Hannibal's hair. Hannibal stiffens, jaw clenching. Will put him in the middle of the room, far away from weapons, even the kitchen island is too far to throw him, and Hannibal wouldn't be able to reach the knife block or flee in time.

Will leans down, jerks his head to one side, and puts his teeth to Hannibal's ear. Presses the gun in another kiss just below his mouth. "I know what you are," he whispers, and his voice sends a shiver down Hannibal's spine. "I know who you are."

His hand twists, fists tight in Hannibal's hair, and he straightens, pulling Hannibal's head against his stomach. "I know what you want me to be."

Hannibal swallows, licks his lips, tilts his head up to try and meet Will's eyes. "If I'm not the Ripper, you kill an innocent man. If I am, you kill me, but none of your questions will be answered." Will is silent, staring towards the kitchen island, impassive as stone. "Aren't you curious, Will?"

"You were curious," Will murmurs. "Wind me up, watch me go. And I fucking went. And you…" His lips twitch in a snarl, and he glares down at Hannibal, tightens his hand painfully enough that Hannibal winces before he can control the expression. "You turned everyone against me, made sure I looked guilty, and then – then." His brow furrows again, and he jerks his chin. "Why?"

"Why?" Hannibal repeats.

"You set me free," Will whispers, and Hannibal doesn't know if he's speaking literally, or in a metaphorical sense. There is something rabid in Will's eyes, daunting and clawed. The muzzle of the gun, warmed now by Hannibal's skin, drags down his jaw, settles at the corner of his mouth. Hannibal parts his lips and Will growls, eyes flashing.

His head tilts, and he circles Hannibal again. Crouches down so they're almost level. His lashes lower. "Open your mouth," he commands, and Hannibal obeys, shuddering as Will smiles, showing his fangs, and sinks the gun into his mouth. It's wide, clacks against his teeth and coats his tongue in the taste of gunpowder and steel. Will trembles visibly at the sight of it.

He licks his lips, pushes the gun in deeper, until the sight stings the roof of Hannibal's mouth sharply and he can touch his tongue to Will's curled finger, around the trigger, behind the guard. He is careful not to press, for Will's touch is absolute and unyielding, and he knows how sensitive this model's trigger is.

Will's head tilts, and he pushes in further, and Hannibal lifts a hand to wrap around his wrist, trying to stop him. It bares his scars, and Will's gaze falls to them briefly, tightening at the edges of his eyes and mouth. Hannibal lets out a frantic, desperate sound – the kind that reflects a stinging ache only Will seems able to conjure in him, and Will's gaze snaps to him again, meets Hannibal's silently pleading look.

Will's eyes flash, and he straightens abruptly, yanking the gun from Hannibal's mouth. Hannibal coughs, but resists the urge to wipe at his mouth, and Will yanks on his hair until he tilts his head up.

"We're going to play a game," Will murmurs, head tilted. "Consider it an aggressive form of therapy."

Hannibal swallows, and nods.

"I'm going to ask you some questions. If I think you're lying, I'm going to kill you." Will smiles, wide. "Sound fair?"

Hannibal doesn't answer.

Will huffs a laugh. "Why did you work so hard to free me, even knowing what I know, thinking what I think? You knew I'd come after you."

Hannibal closes his eyes, presses his lips together. "I consider you my friend, Will," he replies. Will's brow arches, his chin lifts. "I couldn't stand the thought of you being behind bars, being sentenced for crimes you did not commit."

Will hums, but his answer must satisfy, because he doesn't feel the press of Will's gun at his head.

Will breathes out. "They never found Abigail's body," he says. Hannibal's eyes lift. "What did you do with her?"

Hannibal shivers, seeing Will's hand flex on his gun. "I own a cabin, up on the bay," he murmurs. "She's there."

"Don't _lie_ to me," Will snarls.

Hannibal shakes his head. "I swear, Will."

Will trembles, for the first time, his lips pressed together. "Is…." He swallows harshly, lifts his eyes, and they shine with saltwater. "Is she alive?"

"Yes," Hannibal says, without hesitation. "She's alive." Will shakes his head, shoulders rolling in a ragged sob, and Hannibal reaches for him, flattening his hand on Will's thighs. "She's alive, Will."

Will lets out a weak, ragged sound, and flings Hannibal away from him, so he lands in a sprawl on the ground. "You're lying," he hisses, and aims his gun at Hannibal's chest. "You're fucking _lying_."

Hannibal shakes his head, pushing himself upright. Will jerks, steps forward, and Hannibal raises a hand, ducks his head. Closes his eyes as Will's gun settles tight against his scalp. "She's alive, Will. She's safe." Will sobs, for a moment unsteady as a boat on stormy seas, and then Hannibal's eyes close, as Will lifts his gun and shoots, bullet embedding itself into the cabinets behind him in an explosion of light and sound. When the gun returns, it's hot to the touch, and Hannibal flinches at the burn. "I'm not deceiving you. I can take you to her."

"Deceiving," Will repeats. Hisses, " _Deceiving._ That's all you do – that's all you are. I'll never know you, not like before."

Hannibal swallows, and lifts his head. Sees Will breathing hard, tears in his eyes, his teeth bared in a savage snarl. He turns, abruptly, and sets his gun on the kitchen island, and Hannibal blinks, lowering his hand, his eyes wide.

Will is unmoving, the only glimpse of life is his twitching fingers, sliding together like the gun is still in his hand, like he's trying to feel the pattern of something small and thin between his fingertips. Hannibal looks up, and behind him, sees the blow of the bullet marring the wood, sunk deep and a coil of burst energy splintering it at the edges.

He swallows, and looks back at Will. Whispers, testing; "Would you like to?"

Will's head lifts, and he turns, the corner of his eye sharp on Hannibal, prone on his kitchen floor. This is Hannibal's home, his castle, the kitchen the pinnacle of his dominion and domain, and yet he is prostrate on the floor for this man, yielding to him like butter to a hot knife.

Will's eyes flash, and he turns around fully. Cocks his head to one side. His nostrils flare, his chest heaves, and he looks beautiful like that, lit from the windows behind him, silhouetted in grey and steel. He advances on Hannibal, herds him like a dog would their lambs, until Hannibal's back presses against the cabinets. Will fists a hand in his hair, forces his head up.

"To know you is to know smoke and mirrors," he whispers, very softly. Hannibal swallows, parts his lips, and Will smiles at him, off-kilter and wide. His eyes flash, and lower, and his other hand slides slowly to his own stomach. Dips down, below his jeans, and Hannibal blinks, his eyes widening. "Tell me, Doctor Lecter, how _interesting_ do you think I find that?"

Whatever Hannibal might have said is lost, as Will pushes at his clothes, just loose enough for him to pull his cock free. Will lifts a brow, tilts his head, and Hannibal swallows and opens his mouth, shivering as Will leans forward, until his forehead presses against the cabinets, above the gunshot, and he pushes between Hannibal's lips.

"You humiliated me," Will hisses, thickening in Hannibal's mouth. It's not out of pleasure, Hannibal knows this, but as Will hardens and starts to give slow, rocking thrusts, he gasps, sighing gently, palming Hannibal's head with both hands as Hannibal chokes, throat spasming around him. "Turned my friends against me. Made me trust you and betrayed that trust."

Hannibal clenches his fists, presses them against the backs of Will's thighs. Pulls, encouraging. Always pushing for more.

"I'm the only one who knows, for certain, what you really are," Will growls, his voice going much lower now, rasping like his throat is the one getting abused. Hannibal swallows around him, tries to breathe as Will pulls back, gags as Will fucks in again, the musk of him clogging Hannibal's sensitive nose, drowning his lungs. "I have the only right to claim it."

He pauses, and pulls back. Smacks a palm harshly on Hannibal's cheek, drawing his eyes up.

"You hear me?" he snarls, and the creature in his eyes is wild, now, clawing raggedly against the bars of its enclosure. Hannibal swallows, cheek stinging, mouth terribly sore. Will shoves back into his gasping mouth before he can reply, tightens a hand in his hair to the point of pain and fucks in deep. His jaw clenches, and he snarls, the sound of it low under the rush of Hannibal's pulse in his ears. "Everything you are, everything you do, I claim it. It's what you wanted – well, it's what you're getting. You're mine."

Hannibal growls, pulls his lips back to show his teeth in warning, and earns another hard smack for his trouble. He gentles immediately, gagging as Will's cock clogs his throat, pushing past trembling muscle until he can barely breathe, even through his nose.

"Savor this, Hannibal," Will breathes, and despite himself, Hannibal shivers at the sound of Will purring his name. "This is the only part of me you'll get to taste."

That's all the warning Hannibal gets, before Will's cock thickens, twitching, and floods his mouth. He coughs, gasping, but Will doesn't let him flinch back, and he has to swallow it all or risk choking on the rush of semen as it pools in his mouth, trickles down his throat. It's a perverse violation, one he didn't expect from Will. A foolish mistake, and one he certainly won't make again.

Will pulls out abruptly, snarling when Hannibal's teeth catch on his cockhead, and he jerks Hannibal's hair, thumb digging into his mouth to force his lips to part. He crouches over Hannibal's thighs, teeth bared, and leans in, licks, once, at the space between Hannibal's lips, shivering when he pulls back.

He stands, and lets Hannibal go, correcting his clothes, and turns back to retrieve his gun. He pushes the hammer back up, flicks on the safety, and tucks his gun into an inner pocket of his jacket.

"Get up," he snaps, and Hannibal obeys, rising on legs that shake despite himself. His cheek burns, his mouth is terribly sore, and he doesn't know what name to give the look in Will's eyes. Wrath, still, perhaps, righteous fury; pleasure, a purring satisfaction in the form of a well-fed hunting cat.

Will's eyes rake over him, cold and piercing, and he lifts his chin. "Now take me to our daughter."

Hannibal blinks, a strange flush of pleasure running down his spine, at hearing Will call Abigail theirs. He clears his throat, wincing at the flex of abused muscles, and nods, pulling his cuffs back over his wrists, fastening them, and walking to the kitchen island to retrieve his jacket, coat, and scarf.

Once everything is back in place, it no longer feels like armor. No longer like a veneer. A fierce wind has blown the smoke and mirrors away, left an undeniably large weakness in his protective shield, something that only Will's venom can penetrate.

He swallows again, and heads towards the door. "Come with me."


End file.
